


Untitled

by HDHale



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Artist Stiles Stilinski, Bad Pick-Up Lines, College Student Stiles Stilinski, Daddy Kink, Fanart, Fanfiction, Flirting, Food, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Making Out, Mentioned Ethan/Jackson Whittemore, Mild Kink, Minor Allison Argent/Lydia Martin, Model Peter Hale, Nude Modeling, Past Stiles Stilinski/Jackson Whittemore, Peter Hale has an average dick, Puns & Word Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-23 02:05:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17674355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HDHale/pseuds/HDHale
Summary: Stiles’ brow is smeared with charcoal from his anatomy study efforts earlier, his thoughts consumed with skeletal figures brushed with tendons and mirror writing scratched alongside them.When no relevant electives are available, Stiles takes a blowoff art class. Their life drawing model turns out to be hot and older andhot.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [red_crate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_crate/gifts).



> Steter Valentine's fic and fanart for Mads. ♡

Stiles’ brow is smeared with charcoal from his anatomy study efforts earlier, his thoughts consumed with skeletal figures brushed with tendons and mirror writing scratched alongside them. He’s still slouched at the computer, poured over his keyboard and notebook when his classmates return. Each one of them is in a dishevelled state with paint flecks across their clothes and a couple of bags dragging a savory yet sweetly spiced scent into the art studio.

He abandons his sketchbook and notes beside the computer, heading over to the set of tall sculpting workbenches pushed together into a makeshift tableau vivant. He scrapes a rickety stool across the floor and clambers on with the same grace he’d mount a moving horse.

“Thank god, I’m starving.” Stiles mumbles, reaching for one of the bags for Lydia to smack his hand away as she portions things out, making sure everyone gets what they paid for. He digs in with little finesse, shovelling Chinese food into his face like a man starved.

“You’re going to choke.” Lydia says clipped and annoyed, only annoyed further as Stiles retorts with a noodle muffled:

“Nah, gag reflex ’s great, thanks.”

Kira elbows him from his other side.

“You know nobody’s expecting you to draw perfectly. That’s not what this class is about. You’re meant to be exploring materials and expressing yourself. It’s not like you’re an Art major.”

“Easy for you to say.” Stiles mumbles, jabbing at his carton of noodles in frustration, churning the contents up.

Kira has the cleanest, most precise, charming illustration style Stiles has ever seen. She lines everything up in order and then draws using sheer paper, layering and her lines growing increasingly neater, until the whole thing is polished and ready to mount and frame. She has an online shop and a considerable following on her social media. It’s a hobby for her, but it’s a hard-earned skill that’s visible in every fine line and brush stroke.

Scott uses his hands, manipulating clay, wire, textiles; just about anything he can think to manipulate with his hands, and polishes everything off with glaze. It’s a little rough around the edges, but there’s trade skills and artistic ability there that comes to him naturally. He’s playful with it and his mom puts his work proudly on display. He’s entered art contests and won a small scholarship for diversity in the arts. Scott plays it off with a shrug of his athletic shoulders and a lopsided smile, saying he’s just doing what he loves. He has a piece about to go on display as part of an exhibit in the city art gallery.

They’ve all come with distinct styles and goals. Lydia with her sharp designs and textile skills which combine to adventurous fashion design. Her girlfriend Allison has a dreamy, floaty watercolor style and a series of ‘ghost girls’, who are as beautiful as they are haunting. More than often she bleeds oranges, golds, reds across cartridge paper, biting her lip as she gazes at Lydia from across the studio.

Stiles wonders if he’ll ever have someone he’s so ridiculously in awe of. Allison immortalising Lydia in so much of her work feels like such a dedication to her.

The Argents even have a library named after them dedicated to Art History, where half a dozen landscape paintings done by Allison’s distant, deceased relatives hang. Everyone seemed to know who she was already except Stiles.

Stiles had been overdoing it with his research binges for his forensic and psychology based classes. His sleeping schedule was screwed and he spent more time sleeping in the library or at the dorm kitchen table than he did in his squeaky bed. So when his roommate Theo had suggested elect to take a blow off class from for fun the next semester out of the few available, he was all for it. Theo had made it sound as if Stiles could make a mug out of clay, or do a few sheets of comic pages and get easy credits doing Art.

He’s a messy worker and it turns out he’s an even messier artist. He doesn’t have the technical knowledge everyone else already has on shading and scale, so when Harris stands behind him, pretentious in his thick rimmed glasses and black turtleneck, Stiles is more often than not scrubbing away with an eraser or turning the page over to start afresh.

Harris took one look at Stiles, apparently transparent, and dismissed his worth as a student from the beginning. He wonders if his harsh critique is meant to drive him from the class altogether, but it riles him up and makes him push. No way is he going to quit. This class is just for fun, just for him, and he’s not about to be bullied out of it. He’s made friends for life since starting the class and even knows a few from other classes.

Sure, he has no finesse as an artist, but as he’s been told by his classmates it takes time, practice, study- and he’s going to work his ass off to improve. He’s acing all his other classes with absolute ease, so he can afford to throw himself into his Art class for a few weeks until his other assignments are given.

His past few weeks obsessing over anatomy, learning the proper terms and forms. He’s poured over the mottled and scratchy sketching of Da Vinci alongside manuals on the muscles and bones of the human body from his forensic labs and finds himself captivated. It’s his biggest obsession. They’re not always perfect, but there’s an intensity to detail of form and shape that clicks with him. He’s been obsessively sketching and studying since, feeling that maybe he’ll stand a chance of producing something half decent in the first in their series of still life drawing sessions.

“You know, I’ve modelled before,” brags Jackson, who can do no wrong in Harris’ eyes. He’s a photographer, makes stylistic mixed media pieces that are murky and confusing in theme. Stiles hates it all. Or maybe it’s just bitterness that they’re no longer making out at parties because Jackson’s dating some guy off the college football team named Ethan who’s everything Stiles isn’t. It’s fine. Stiles isn’t looking for anything serious. He’s actually more bitter that Jackson thinks he’s all that because he’s Harris’ protégé.

“Not nude.” Jackson clarifies, as if everyone was thinking it. “When I modelled it was for a magazine advertisement. I reckon I’d be a good study for life drawing too.”

Stiles snorts, glad he’s not got a mouthful of food at that moment.

“What? At least I _have_ muscles.” Jackson glares across the table bordering on cocky, but Stiles shrugs it off with an easy smile, unperturbed.

He knows he has a great figure and he doesn’t have to be shackled to the gym to achieve it. He can eat as many curly fries as he damn well pleases. He isn’t phased in the slightest by Jackson’s taunt, which he knows is what will wind the guy up most of all. It amuses Stiles to no end. He knows even if Jackson has a perfect boyfriend for himself now, he did and likely still does find Stiles attractive.

“At least I’m _cute._ ” Stiles says with a growing smirk. Jackson’s told him so before. He relishes in the pink blooming beneath Jackson’s faint freckles.

Jackson isn’t nearly as cool as he makes out and Stiles still enjoys teasing him with that knowledge. He knows the guy’s a little insecure and kind of a sweetheart.

Before the cutting tension can build from more than playful bickering, Allison pipes up.

“I’ve drawn Lydia nude,” she beams, looking across at her girlfriend with a playful gleam in her eye. Lydia pretends to be embarrassed but does a poor job of it, batting lightly at Allison.

“Please. People don’t want to hear about what we do behind closed doors.” Lydia says all sweetness, even though her pouty lips are curved in amusement and once glance around the table, Stiles can see Jackson is ogling Lydia, and Scott swears as he realizes he’s just dropped his dinner down himself.

Stiles sniggers, shaking his head and starts scraping at his carton, being so bold as to tip it up to empty the last flecks into his mouth, even as Lydia complains about his table manners. He doesn’t care. This is going to be his once a week treat this semester that cuts into his meagre expenses. He’s going to savour proper fresh egg noodles and duck instead of packet ramen.

He’s chuckling to himself like an idiot and pushes Lydia further by terrorising her with sabre-toothed chopstick fangs, growling as she tries to pretend she’s fine dining at a restaurant, and not hunched over a college workbench as they are. Lydia likes to think they’re responsible adults now and not living college campus life.

Stiles is right at the peak of his sabre-toothed lycanthropic slash vampiric snarling performance. Then he catches someone in his peripheral vision across the studio, watching his routine with piercing eyes.

He flails as his chopstick ‘teeth’ fall out, catching one and accidentally launching one across the studio to clatter across the floor.

The unfairly handsome man continues to stare and Stiles gestures vaguely behind him in the direction of the lost, plastic chopstick, rubs the back of his neck as he drums the other against the table.

“Sabre-toothed… werewolf.” Stiles explains, managing an awkward smile, flashing his own set of baby fangs as his dad used to call them.

To his surprise, the man’s lips hitch up at one corner and he hums out a sound of amusement.

“Uncanny.”

Even his voice is smooth and deep.

He lingers a moment, staring until Stiles goes strawberry red at the attention. His own smile lingers and he twirls the chopstick between his fingers. The stranger breaks their eye contact and heads straight for the closed door of Harris’ office. He raps his knuckles on the door twice, letting himself in after Harris’ distant voice inside invites him inside.

Stiles is rooted to the spot, face tingling with lingering heat.

_Interesting._

“Stiles!” Kira gasps and dissolves into giggles, the other two girls joining her. Scott obviously knows he’s missed something and Jackson snickers, shaking his head with a smile as he digs back into his food.

“Shut up.” Stiles grumbles, retrieving his other chopstick and gathers up the trash for recycling.

“That must be our model.” Lydia notes, something bright and eager in her big eyes as she eyes the door of Harris’ office expectantly.

“Him? Really?” Allison’s brows raise, staring intently at her girlfriend, who glances back, realizing she’s been caught out. Lydia acts innocent, but Allison is nothing but amused. Stiles can tell she’ll be teasing Lydia the entire time.

“I mean, he’s not faculty and he’s way above Harris’ reach.”

Allison rolls her eyes good-naturedly and sighs: “That’s not what I meant.”

“And did you see those shoulders and that jaw? Sweetie, that man is a model. As in designer brands. I’m pretty sure I recognize him. I’ve seen that face before.”

“That guy is _art_.” Stiles blurts out, still flustered and his insides twisting at the thought of the guy shedding his leather jacket and clothing piece by piece to reveal whatever he was hiding beneath. Stiles can’t wait. His stomach fills with butterflies at the thought.

“Not you too, Stiles?” Allison looks as appalled as she does entertained. “He’s got to be the same age as my dad!”

“You could set them up.” Lydia comments, touching the back of Allison’s hand lightly. Allison barks out a laugh, rolls her eyes.

“You’re a menace.”

Stiles can’t imagine a more beautiful couple. The model looks slick and sophisticated, and the way he carried himself so surely and proudly… Stiles wonders he’d look good on the arm of someone like that. Especially when he’s in his oldest, rainbow plaid and an old, vibrant graphic tee that now act as his painting clothes. Maybe though. He knows sometimes older men take an interest in him, but it’s never something he’s pursued before.

The hot guy was definitely showing some sort of interest in him, but Stiles isn’t sure how he’d pursue that, especially if he does turn out to be their life drawing model. He’s pretty sure that would make things incredibly awkward, if not bordering on sexual harassment. The last thing he wants to do is make the guy feel uncomfortable if he’s taking his clothes off for them.

When Harris emerges, he claps his hands together in frustration, wheeling around the table.

“Anytime today, students! While I’m more than thrilled for you to waste your thousands of dollars of tuition fees gossiping while I work on my own projects, we have a guest in our midst and this space needs preparing!”

Everyone scrambles to finish their dinner and there’s a whirlwind of movement to transform the classroom. The work bench tables are pushed aside to open out the studio space, easels and stools dragged out, paper unfurled from the drawers and materials spread out around each student, on any and every available nearby surface. Stiles sets up his notebook, leafing through towards his male anatomy studies, hoping his notes will help him take on board what he’s seeing. He knows what usually suits his learning style best.

The notebook is snatched from his fingers from behind. Harris inexplicably _there_ all of a sudden, like some creature from a horror movie. Stiles is still insisting to his classmates that between that spooky stealth, his waxy, pale skin, and his ongoing complaints about the lingering scent of garlic after their last pizza party, he might be some sort of Nosferatu creature.

If two pieces of evidence are a coincidence, then a third is all Stiles needs. He knows in his gut Harris is something else.

“Shit,” he curses, taking a step off and away from his stool and Harris...

Who is flipping through his sketchbook, looking down his nose at the fruits of Stiles’ laborious research.

“I, uh, I’m gonna need that back.” Stiles tentatively extends his hand out, but Harris doesn’t bat an eyelid and continues leafing through carelessly. He even goes as far to draw it away when Stiles’ fingers almost reach the spine of it.

“Is this supposed to be a Da Vinci?”

“Yeah, I was studying. You know. Trying to learn how he studied body parts. Uh, those are just gesture drawings from photographs out of different museum archives… They’re just doodles, really.” Stiles’ face is growing ruddy with embarrassment as he stretches out for the book.

“These are poor imitations. So obviously copied without thought.”

“Right, but they’re only-”

“Trying to become a human copier isn’t art.”

“But I need it to help me identify the different muscles groups,” Stiles says louder, firmer, his fingers at the spine of the book.

“It’s cheating.” Harris proclaims and snaps the book shut. “You’ll never learn like this. Go get an easel and paper. You can have this back after class.” He says as if confiscating his cell phone during a test.

Stiles is pissed, scowling and muttering curses as he storms off in the opposite direction to Harris in search of an easel and paper. He ends up with the last one, which doesn’t adjust properly and still wobbles no matter what he does. Liam comes over to help him wrestle it into submission until they give up and Stiles wedges his last critique sheet from Harris under one leg.

His irritation has climbed so high that when he settles down on his stool, he notices the spotlights that have been set up, enormous, balanced on spindly bases. There are two space heaters as well, all pointed inward to the empty space in the middle like some strange Stonehenge. Stiles had almost forgotten what they were there for.

When Harris comes back out, he gives a brief explanation of how he wants them to do a series of smaller, quick study sketches, and then after a short break, they’ll do a longer pose on a larger sheet, or a material of their choice. Stiles looks over to see Scott practically bouncing like a puppy in delight.

He’s never seen a straight guy so excited about a naked man before. He stifles a laugh when they catch eyes, clapping a hand to his mouth. It earns him a warning look from Harris.

“Please remain respectful and silent during the session.”

Harris continues on about what he wants to see, but Stiles is distracted by the model where he’s stepped out of Harris’ office. He’s swaddled in a robe that somehow looks fuzzy and sleek at the same time, a deep charcoal that looks similar to crushed velvet. It’s an adorable contrast to the structured leather jacket he’d been wearing when he came in. He’s now barefooted, pacing closer and coming to a pause just outside the circle.

The soft bathrobe makes him look so cosy and instantly approachable, cuddly even. Stiles can imagine him wandering around a luxury apartment in it. Maybe pouring a glass of wine to curl up on the sofa with some good music or a book… _and Stiles_.

He’s stunning.

Stiles isn’t prepared for when the model is invited to take his first pose whenever he’s ready. Harris gives them five minutes for it.

He watches as their model draws apart the ties of his robe and shrugs it off his incredibly powerful shoulders and down his muscular arms, the front parting as he slips it off.

He looks like classical depictions of male beauty. Defined muscle, bulging and smooth in all the right places, his cock uncut and nestled between thick thighs. He isn’t enormous, maybe smaller than usual due to the chill of the studio, but the way his cock sits perfectly against his balls makes Stiles’ heart race. He swallows hard and turns quickly to the array of monochrome pencils, chalks, and charcoal he’s lined along the ledge of his easel for the session.

When he looks back up, he’s got a perfect view of a full, perky ass and the most sculpted back he’s ever seen. He’s flustered even just looking. He’s never seen anyone so gorgeous. He doesn’t know how he’s going to survive the session.

The kneadable, putty eraser becomes a stress ball for him, getting squashed and stretched to snapping point, then squeezed back together again. He doesn’t know if he’s been blessed or cursed.

Thankfully once the model is finally settled in a standing pose, his posture loose and relaxed, Stiles remembers where he is and tears himself out of his daze to remember what he’d learned. He needs to be professional and studious and prove Harris wrong.

The model’s strong muscle definition makes it much easier to pick out and remember most of what he’s looking at. He’s a much better example of the perfect masculine form than the pictures Stiles tried sketching from. He suddenly understands how Allison gets so caught up in drawing Lydia repeatedly, and he can see why this guy is a perfect study. His physique is so well built, the grooves and dimples of his muscle clear, with enough padding in the right places.

He deserves to have marble sculptures made in his likeness, but Stiles doesn’t think any medium could ever capture how firm and soft he looks simultaneously. It’s difficult to keep his mind from wandering.

During his first drawing practice he runs out of time, barely getting any detail into the guy’s shoulders and only managing the barest lines of his thick thighs and round ass. So when he turns after the time has passed into the next pose, Stiles manages his time better. He gets a half decent figure of the man with a slightly arched back, ribs flaring, thighs tense and feet set apart, arms raised to tuck his hands behind his head.

The third short study is a wider, more dramatic pose. Stiles gets to appreciate the size and bulk of his arms, the broadness of his cleanly waxed chest as he spreads his arms out. He’s more directly facing Stiles though, so he’s forced to take another few glances at his cock. He can’t bring himself to focus too much. He dreads his body reacting and he doesn’t want the model to feel ogled. He gets a vague shape down and chalks it down to the brief window of time. He doesn’t get to detail the man’s face very well, but he finds that’s the most difficult part of drawing the human body. He’ll never be a portrait artist.

When they come to the first longer pose, the model takes up a smaller and folded, seated position on the floor. Stiles can appreciate the lighting and how the shadows start to cast over the curves of muscle and where he has one knee bent, foot on the floor. He takes advantage, flattening a piece of charcoal to the board and rubs in a deep shadow over his vague outline of a cock. He briefly smudges the edges soft with his fingers, but even that makes him blush and feel like an inexperienced teenager once more, so he moves on. He’ll have to practice drawings dicks in his spare time.

He finds that with a longer period he can study the man’s muscles better, getting more of the familiar shapes down, recalling the videos he’s watched online about how they work- which ones bunch and stretch- and all the text books from Forensics class that detail how muscle attaches to the skeleton. His obsessive studying appears to be paying off. For an absolute novice to drawing, he’s proud of his first efforts.

Soon he’s off his stool, nudging it out the way with his foot to create space in front of his easel. He works hard and fast to start getting in some detail, even attempting to create a half decent likeness of the model’s face. It proves to be the most difficult thing to capture after his cock. He’s got a great brow, beautiful eyes, a sharp jawline emphasized with a neat dusting of stubble and dark, tufted hair. He can’t quite get the guy’s nose right, he had thought it was pointed, but now it appears rounded and wide. He scratches in some crosshatching, switching up his mediums, hoping to highlight the areas he’s detailed and to give more depth. It… almost works… if he squints.

He’ll get it on the next one, or at least he won’t feel quite as embarrassed by the end of the semester with his attempt at art.

Harris gives a warning when there’s only five minutes remaining. Stiles hurriedly scribbles in white highlights where the light catches certain places on the model’s figure. He smudges some areas he’s unhappy with using his fingers, the back of his hand, to try disguise his inexperience.

Finally, Harris announces time is up, singling out and chastising Stiles when he doesn’t stop. With a puff of breath Stiles steps away, somewhat pleased, somewhat frustrated. It’s not what he envisioned at all and he’s not so sure he likes it now he’s stepped back.

The model is wrapping himself up in the robe and Harris announces they have a ten minute break to use the bathroom and get a drink. People start milling about, excited to share their artwork. Stiles stands besides his own board to contemplate his own drawing, wanting to figure out how to do improve next time. He’s feeling particularly ambitious. He blames the incredibly attractive subject for stoking the fire.

Harris offers to make the model tea, disappearing into the small kitchenette by himself. Instead of following Harris the model strolls over towards the nearest easel, where Kira’s cleaning off her paint brushes in a glass jar of water before wiping them clean.

He makes softly spoken pleasantries with Kira that Stiles is too far to hear. He looks impressed, gesturing in a sweeping motions at what was no doubt a masterpiece worthy of hanging in a gallery. Stiles is enraptured by the model now he’s in motion, so expressive and precise- there’s something powerful and dignified about everything he does. Stiles can’t take his eyes off him. He even points out Kira’s traditional brush set and Stiles starts actively straining to eavesdrop as she explains how it was a graduation gift from her mom. The model listens, pinching the point of his strong jaw, rubbing at the neatly trimmed stubble there. He looks even more beautiful when he’s concentrating. Stiles wants to be drawing _that_ expression. He wishes he was more of a portrait artist to capture that face, to do him justice.

Stiles has it _bad._

The model looks up from Kira’s work, catching eyes with Stiles again- catching Stiles _staring_. That soulful, intellectual look he’s wearing fades, giving way to something heated and predatory. A smirk draws across his mouth, causing Stiles’ own lip to pop from where he’s been sucking it between his teeth hard. The model is so charismatic when he isn’t frozen like some Classical marble statue. He takes a step around Kira, attention fixed with purpose on Stiles as he excuses himself.

The directness of it startles Stiles out of his gawking.

“ _Shit!_ ”

Stiles flails and ducks behind his board as a makeshift shield, grabbing onto either side of the easel as he slips from where he’d been perched on the edge of his stool. The whole thing rocks and rattles, while he desperately tries to fight to keep both himself and the easel upright, without smudging or creasing his work in the process.

Miraculously, both he and his easel find their balance.

Stiles grasps onto the edges of the backing board with white knuckles. His eyes close as he wishes himself elsewhere, lips pressed together as he holds back a whine of lament. He drops his head forward, thumping it gently to the board in shame.

“That’s an innovative technique. Although I hear the arts students especially enjoy a bit of experimentation,” the guy’s voice washes over Stiles, mellifluous and warming. He peels himself back and uncurls his fingers to stand tall, looking wide-eyed towards the model.

“Oh,” he said gently, knowing the guy was being witty, maybe even flirting with him, but those eyes… They’re even prettier up close.

“When people tell you to use your head, they don’t mean literally.”

Stiles keeps gaping, like a fish, not sure he’ll be able to recover.

Then he remembers he just faceplanted his unset artwork.

“Oh god!” Stiles whirls back to his hard work, grabbing the board and tugging the easel to himself as he looks over his picture to make sure he’s not ruined it. He taps a few areas gently, brushes his figertips over the paper lightly.

It’s fine. If he smudged anything it doesn’t look any different to his intentional brushes. He breathes out a light noise of relief. The model is staring at him as he creeps closer, head cocked ever so slightly to the side with more interest than he’s shown anyone or anyone’s artwork so far. Stiles’ cheeks are on fire.

“The title of this piece is: ‘Screw You, Mr Harris’, I Studied My Ass Off’.” Stiles explains, gesturing to the scribbles and the mess of techniques. “And those are ‘A Study in Smudges’.” He grimaces and smiles awkwardly as he gestures to the quick sketches set aside. “I mean. I probably should have stuck with one medium and one technique and not thrown everything I studied at the page like that, but honestly, I don’t really know what I’m doing.” Stiles fiddles with his hands, trying to clean some of the dirt from his palms.

“No, no.” The model reassures him, resting his fingertips lightly on Stiles’ arm. He stills. “I like it.” He says as he starts to study it properly, but Stiles cuts his eyes, unconvinced.

“Really?”

“Really. You have my word.” The model promises, as if he should understand the weight of his promise. He gives Stiles’ wrist a gentle squeeze and then carefully draws his arm away, taking down his protective barrier. Stepping to join him shoulder to shoulder in front of his figure drawing, he folds his thickly muscled arms across the deep v fold of his robe. It’s not as closely tucked this time, Stiles can see cleavage as he dares take a quick glimpse. He directs his gaze forward and then avoids the model’s chest entirely, settling for admiring his handsome face instead. He wants to memorize every detail.

For his art, of course.

They both stare for a long while, Stiles going between the picture and the guy’s face as his pretty, blue eyes flit over the scrawling, scratching and smudging of Stiles’ artwork.

“What happened here?” The model asks curiously as he points, circling the dark smear of charcoal and shadow between his legs.

“What? I’ve never drawn a dick before! I’m usually busy doing other things than drawing if a guy has his dick out.” Stiles shrugs, wiping the charcoal and pencil stains from his fingers onto his shirt tails.

“Is that so?” There’s an amused, playful purr to the guy’s voice that draws Stiles in, eases his anxiety and encourages him to flirt.

“Yeah, I mean,” he fights off a smile, adopting an innocent, sweeter tone. “You’re kind of my first.” Stiles can’t help the incredibly dorky smile that makes his cheeks dimple and plump as he holds back a chuckle.

“I see.” The models hums. “Well, I’m honoured.” His large hand claps over his left pec as he looks across at Stiles with a heartfelt, puppy expression that makes them both break into grins and sets Stiles off giggling. The model doesn’t laugh nearly as much as Stiles does, but he can’t take his eyes off Stiles.

After giving Stiles a moment to calm down, he asks politely: “May I give you a small critique? Seeing as this is meant to be a learning exercise.”

“Uh, sure. I guess.” Stiles rubs nervously at the back of his neck. He loathes critique circles in front of the class usually, so he’s not sure why he agrees other than he does want to improve himself as an artist.

“You’ve given me some extra muscles here. I don’t believe this one actually exists.” His hovering finger moves between his neck and collarbone on one side.

“Hey! I drew what I could see.” Stiles objects, knowing he probably got flustered at the way the model has his head turned, flexing to pop some seriously impressive ropes of muscle in that thick neck of his. Besides, he didn’t get to practice the shoulders and neck all that much.

“Trust me,” Stiles says confidently. “Even your muscles have muscles. I know my anatomy. Kind of. I’m a Forensics student as well.” He sees the intrigue on the model’s face, but presses on with determination. “I’m pretty sure whatever workout routine you’re doing you’ve discovered entirely new muscles. Nobody has a neck that thick!” He flaps his hands at the drawing, exasperated that he didn’t perfect his anatomy skills in one week.

“I trust you; you are the artist afterall. I’m not complaining, but I do think you’ve exaggerated my muscles slightly.” The model drops his voice a fraction, to something more seductive and secretive. “Although artists tend to focus on the features they deem important or attractive. So I’m hardly upset if _this_ is what you see. On the contrary it’s incredibly flattering.” The intensity of honesty and smugness in his voice is something that makes Stiles’ brows fly up.

The older man really does seem taken with him. Huh. Maybe he does have a shot.

“As crude as your technical skills are, I personally like it rough.” The model’s grin is savagely handsome and Stiles makes a flustered sound of want, cheeks feeling flushed. Rough sounds good. This guy can have rough anytime he pleases. Stiles is so down for that.

Before Stiles can respond to his innuendo, he’s pressing on with a kinder, knowledgeable tone, as if flirting comes to him as natural part of conversation.

“You’ve got such a good eye for gesture and caricature. I think this is one of the most interesting and original works in here. It’s fun. I love it.” Even the model sounds surprised.

“Really?” Stiles asks, dumbfounded. It’s the first honest compliment he’s had as an artist. There doesn’t feel like there’s any trace of pity like when Scott checks out his doodles, or any scolding like when Harris shreds into his technique and ‘personal style’. It makes sense though, Stiles enjoys drawing comics down the margins of his notebooks in other classes and inside the letters he posts home to his dad.

It’s potentially part of this guy’s flirting game, but Stiles doesn’t think so somehow, and he’s got a good gut instinct. He’s usually right about these things.

Stiles does have a strong _feeling_ about the model he can’t identify though. He’s curious and wants to get to the bottom of it. The mystery is as attractive as the man himself.

“Try not to get caught up in producing ‘perfect’ art. It’s clear you’re building a lot of technical skills up, that definitely shows here, but do try to have fun.” He bumps against Stiles’ side with a charming smile. “That’s what college is all about. This is your ‘kick back and have fun’ class, right? Seeing as you’re a Forensics student...”

“Right! Exactly.” Stiles snaps and points a finger back at him, prods him gently in the arm. “You get it.” He stares at the very firm sport he just poked. Even through the plush robe he got a good sense of how solid the guy’s arms are. He wants to grasp and squeeze. He wants to be wrapped up in them. “Those are some solid arms you’ve got there.”

“Aren’t you sweet.” The model says, looking amused and slightly perplexed.

Stiles has no idea what to say to that, licking his lips and then pressing them tight before he says something even more awkward.

They stand shoulder to shoulder, Stiles feeling fuzzy from the combination of the thrill of flirting followed by the strangely insightful and calming advice that’s completely put him at ease. It’s the first time he hasn’t felt stressed out in the art studio. He knows there’s probably some privacy boundaries, but the model has already taken his time moving around the classroom to check out other students’ artwork and talk to them, he’s clearly enjoying himself and is a social creature. Stiles is curious.

“Do you enjoy doing life drawing then, or does it pay really well or something? Should I be tapping into that market?” Stiles asks, not caring if he’s being blunt and to the point, but it seems fair after the straightforwardness he’s received. “Or are you some kind of exhibitionist?” He almost laughs with a nervous breath, holds up his hands. “Not that I’d judge. If I looked like you I’d totally be getting naked as often as possible. Probably in front of a mirror.” He regrets saying it instantly, but it has the opposite effect and apparently he’s equally as charming with his semi-teasing tone. He can tell the model is completely endeared. He’s laughing so much it makes the faint wrinkles at his eyes crease.

He looks impossibly handsome laughing.

Stiles’ knees almost buckle as the model claps a hand down on his shoulder and squeezes affectionately. He seems incredibly tactile. Stiles wishes he could touch back, but it doesn’t feel like an appropriate context, seeing as this work for the model and he’s wearing nothing beneath that robe. Even if they’re flirting, they’ve not long met and Stiles is fairly certain it would be against college rules if anything more than flirting happened.

“Not at all. Modelling is a real boost of confidence, of course, but I originally did this while I was studying in college myself for some extra income. And…” Leaning closer, his voice becomes a rumbled purr: “I guess you could say I'm drawn to artists.”

The terrible pun makes Stiles bark out a ridiculous laugh, losing it and making people glance over as they both snicker together, like the two mischievous ones at the back of class. Stiles feels had they been in college at the same time together, they’d have been the worst and best of influences. He can already tell they’d have a thick as thieves friendship.

“Damn, now I wish I _was_ an artist.” Stiles eventually manages as the laughter dies down and he lets out a content sigh, blinking rapidly and rubbing at his damp lashes with the cuff of his flannel.

“So if you're not an artist then what are you?” The model asks with intrigue and it takes Stiles a second to realize what he’s being asked. He already knows that Stiles is studying Forensics as well.

He wants to get personally acquainted.

“Stiles. I'm a Stiles.” He says smoothly, then blurts out: “And single. So... painfully single.”

Not that he hasn’t got game, but dating hasn’t been steady for him. Maybe he hasn’t longed after anyone enough like he is now. He wants more than flirting. He really does. He can’t think of anything else he wants more in the world than to make out with a hot, witty, older model.

“Peter. I'm a writer, formerly in publishing. Also single. Very much enjoying it.”

“Oh?” Stiles purses his lips and raises his brows, hopeful. Peter’s eating up his enthusiasm.

“Well, at least I'm enjoying not having anyone jealous over the fact I'm out stark naked on a weeknight being drawn by clever, gorgeous, young men.”

“You think I'm clever?” Stiles pipes up, eyes round. Even though they’ve been flirting, Peter’s direct attitude is super refreshing after all the dates he’s had at college so far. ‘Clever’ isn’t something people tend to compliment him with. He’s typically ‘cute’ or ‘funny’. He’s branded a ‘smartass’ constantly. ‘Clever’ is a new one. So is ‘gorgeous’, but to his surprise he loves that too. He preens slightly, even in his daze. Maybe Peter is a genius and already knows which of Stiles’ buttons to press.

Peter leans in ever closer, a hand gently touching Stiles’ lower back, brushing along the small curve of it. It’s right above the waistband of his pants beneath his shirt hem, but Stiles wouldn’t mind his hand sliding a little lower.

“Clever _and_ gorgeous.” Peter purrs, hushed and warm against the shell of his ear.

Stiles feels like he’s going to swoon, but he’d trust that big, warm palm at his back to catch him. Only Peter pulls away gently, giving him some space again, apparently ready to move on. Stiles almost forgot where they are. Harris has materialized across the other side of the studio with two cups of tea.

“I hope you pin up my Herculean figure and smudged cock for all your dormmates to appreciate. Do me a favor and tell them I have an enormous cock? They’ll never know.” Peter’s still got that teasing tone to his voice and hardly sounds bothered about his cock size in reality, so Stiles laughs and rolls his eyes.

“ _Dude._ Your cock is _plenty_ big enough.”

“Really?” Peter lifts an eyebrow meandering back to him even before he can make it away from Stiles’ work space, drawn back by the fresh spark of electricity between them.

Stiles picks up a broken stub of charcoal and throws it at Peter, aiming at where his chest is padded by the robe.

Obviously Stiles misses, his shot wide, and the charcoal stick clatters somewhere across the studio. Luckily Harris doesn’t seem to take notice.

“You know life drawing models are supposed to be seen and not heard, right?” Stiles shoots back, trying to look unimpressed. There’s nothing he can do to disguise his blush, apart from trying to hide behind his board again.

“Well how would you like to see a little more of me?” Peter grins as he comes to a stop, not at all threatened by the Stiles’ missile attack.

Stiles goes from pink to red. For a second he thinks Peter might be asking him out on a date.

“I think I've seen everything already.” Stiles says on the brink of making an awful guffaw of amusement, but he suppresses it to a juvenile snigger instead. He drops himself back onto his stool, kicking a foot to swing his leg back and forth light-heartedly.

His heart is pounding like crazy in the hope that maybe Peter will bite and ask him out explicitly. A guy can dream.

“I could still show you a thing or two.” With a wink Peter steps backwards and turns gracefully even on his bare heel. He strolls off to collect his tea from Harris and completes his circuit of the students’ artwork without another look back. Stiles is left longing after him even more desperately than before.

He feels like a horny teenager again and a love-struck fool all at once.

He squirms on his stool, hot under the collar of his dirtied painting flannel as he listens to Peter launch into easy conversation with Theo about Da Vinci’s research and experimentation on human anatomy, and then thanks him for noticing his Apollo's dimples before moving on.

All the while Stiles can’t stop watching or listening to Peter. He looks so good bundled up in his fuzzy robe and comfortable pacing around discussing his own naked figure with each artist. His confidence and dignity leave Stiles longing after him.

He’s about to hop off his perch with the excuse of searching for the stub of charcoal he threw away, when a firm hand stops him.

“Could you be any more obvious?” Lydia hisses as she slots to his side, clutching his arm in a vice grip, despite how dainty her hand is. “You're practically salivating over him.”

“But I want one.” Stiles says wistfully.

“There's plenty of those shoulders on the football team. Look at Jackson’s Ethan. His friend Danny is gay, you know.” Lydia suggests, but Stiles dismisses the thought with an: ‘Eh.’ She clicks her tongue, crossing her arms. “His dick isn't anything to write home about either.”

“There's nobody with shoulders or a neck like that on the football team. And did you see his thighs!? Who needs an enormous, uncomfortably large cock when you could be riding those thighs...” Stiles shakes his head slightly. “I'm screwed. I'm gonna have to make out with him and get all this out my system if I'm going to concentrate to get these final credits.”

“Stiles.” Lydia says in warning, as if she’s not sure he’s serious or not.

“Only a bit. I won't be slutty. I won’t put out unless he buys me dinner first. Promise.”

“It's not you I'm worried is the slutty one.” Lydia hisses, shooting a look across to where Peter is now simultaneously charming both Theo and Liam, giving them a brief history of Da Vinci’s anatomy work and something about wax hearts. “I do get the appeal though, somebody experienced and mature...” Lydia says distractedly as she coils a lock of strawberry blonde hair around her finger, staring at Peter for a few long moments. “Just make sure you use protection,” she reminds Stiles as she comes back and flicks her hair back over her shoulder. “You have my number, message me if you’re meeting up with him, check in with me.” Lydia strokes down his arm lightly, looking softer. “Be safe, Stiles.” And with that Lydia’s heels are clicking as she struts across the room back to prepare her board for the next round.

It’s not long before Harris is whirling around the studio demanding they shut up and prepare for their final long sit drawing. This time Peter gets a chair to sprawl on. Stiles takes his sweet time drawing and sticks to working on form gestures and trying to capture the smouldering look on Peter’s face, concentrating on his eyes when they lift up to study him as he draws. He wonders if anyone has noticed Peter’s looking at him so much. It feels risky and exciting.

It’s Stiles’ new favorite class. He’s already looking forward to their next life drawing session.

He’s disappointed when at the end of the class, Harris thanks Peter and sends him off to redress in the small office. This time Peter doesn’t come to inspect their drawings, but Stiles suspects he wants to get into something warm and to head home. Harris directs them all to place their work on the racks, where they’ll do a class critique at the start of their next lesson. Stiles doesn’t think he’ll mind getting to see all the various angles and poses his classmates have captured Peter in.

As they finish packing up the studio grows increasingly quiet and cold as the space heaters are wheeled away, the easels set aside. Gradually everyone files out, eager to head back to their dorms. Stiles agrees to join Theo, Liam and Scott for drinks, and they’re already on their way out when he recalls his confiscated sketchbook.

“I’ll catch up with you! I want to get my sketchbook back before Harris ‘misplaces’ it.” Stiles mutters, slinging his backpack higher over his shoulder and rushing back to the office before Harris returns.

He stumbles in and nudges the door shut with his hip, the latch clicking before he realizes he’s not alone.

“Peter.”

He turns his head towards Stiles. He’s wearing dark, painted-on jeans and artistically distressed boots that are open and floppy, but apparently he didn’t manage to get entirely changed. Stiles wets his lips as he takes in Peter’s shirtlessness, which is somehow hotter than when he’s nude and striking a deliberate pose. Stiles imagines candids of Peter are always stunning.

He then realizes what had Peter so distracted when he burst in. Stiles’ sketchbook is propped open in one of Peter’s broad hands, his fingers poised to turn the next page, already halfway through.

“I came to pick up my sketchbook. Harris confiscated it at the start of class.” Stiles explains meekly, letting his bag slide and dropping it on the desk chair as he reaches Peter’s side.

“This is yours?” Peter lifts his brows and looks back to the work in his hand.

“Yeah, I had longer to work on those though, so I guess it’s better than what I did tonight. I was kinda nervous.”

“Nervous?” Peter smirks, turning on the spot to face him as he lifts his gaze from Stiles’ drawings. “Do I make you nervous?”

“In a good way.” Stiles admits, head down demurely, looking up at Peter through his lashes. It’s only slightly put on, but it works. Peter snaps the book shut and sets it down on the desk with greater care than Stiles ever treats it with. He doesn’t take his eyes off Stiles. “You were watching me.” Stiles says boldly, reaching out, playing with fire as he hooks a finger into a belt loop of Peter’s jeans. “What were you thinking about?” He keeps his voice sweet, remembering the way the older man looked at him when he’d been teasing him earlier.

“You...” Peter admits, voice sounding rough and wrecked with desire. Stiles feels powerful. He tugs at Peter’s belt loop to draw himself in another step until they’re toe to toe. He makes a light, questioning sound, cocking his head as he gets closer. “ _Naked._ ”

Stiles has never felt more wanted or sexier in all his life. He’s knows having a hot, older guy crowding him back against a wall is his go-to jerking off fantasy. He has a type, okay, which isn’t drunk frat boys.

The build-up has been exquisite, so Stiles melts as Peter crowds against him at long last.. He slides and squirms against the wall and beneath Peter as they surge together to kiss. Stiles grasps onto the back of Peter’s neck and clutches at the nape of his hair as Peter takes hold of his hips. It’s a deep kiss, fuelled by an evening of foreplay in the form of lingering glances and teasing wordlessly. Even as Stiles sketched Peter’s naked body he’d been able to feel him undressing him with his eyes.

Stiles loves using his tongue, slow and teasing and Peter’s more than happy to play along. His hands cup around to Stiles’ ass, squeezing and pawing at him through his jeans in a way that makes Stiles moan. Peter drags his nails hard up Stiles’ thigh, where he can feel the drag even through the material of his pants. Stiles hadn’t realized he’d cocked his leg slightly to fit better against Peter’s hips in an attempt to grind. He gasps, breaking the kiss, catching a glimpse of Peter’s eyes before they’re grasping and tugging at each other once again.

They kiss until their lips are slick and Stiles’ feel swollen and sensitive, his tongue is slack as he lets Peter take charge, mirroring the way he licks into his mouth with a grace the rest of his body seems to lack. He runs his hands along the broad slope of Peter’s neck and shoulders, trying to appreciate his strong frame and feels those muscles he’s been admiring all night long.

Peter catches Stiles’ hands as they sweep downward to linger over the chest he’s been coveting all night. Their kissing slows to something sensual that’s so intense that it _does something_ to Stiles. His heart swells in his chest, he’s lightheaded, he’s pretty sure he’s delirious from lack of air, his stomach flips. Peter’s the best kisser he’s ever had. Stiles was absolutely right to be into older men. Peter knows what he’s doing.

Stiles makes a weak, needy sound and Peter takes pity on him.

They slow their impromptu make out session. Peter gives Stiles’ soft lips gentler pecks between the deeper kisses, teasing and nipping at Stiles’ bottom lip until it feels plump and tingles, deliciously oversensitive. Peter takes Stiles’ hands from where they’re splayed over his pecs, pinning him by his wrists to the wall. Stiles melts further, a surge of arousal going through him at how forceful and dominant the gesture feels, even though Peter’s only using the lightest force. He goes with it, perfectly pliant for Peter. He’s certain he’s only upright due to sheer will power of wanting to sustain the breath-taking kisses.

He breaks off with a slightly startled gasp, shifting a little, testing Peter’s hold to make him curl his grip tighter as he watches Stiles’ lips curves into a smile. There’s an unspoken test of something in their dynamic that sparks something in their connection. Stiles tries to shift, only slightly, and the grasp makes him moan, mouth falling open further, inviting Peter in.

It does the trick. Peter curses in a ragged growl, joining their mouths together to kiss Stiles a while longer. Stiles loses track of all time, loving how Peter’s frame feels so much larger than his own as he kisses him senseless, until he feels intoxicated and his pants are feeling too snug.

The kisses slow and grow tacky, Peter letting his plush lips drag and catch against Stiles.

“You’re so pretty, so gorgeous. I just adore you.” Peter purrs between delicate, almost loving presses to Stiles’ cheek, down to his throat. Stiles sighs and lets his head loll aside with a whine, mewls as teeth graze over delicate, freshly shaved skin. He bites back a moan as Peter’s next kiss turns into hot, searing pressure and he mewls as he’s branded by Peter’s filthy mouth. Stiles whines.

“Peter,” he begs with a whimper. It’s too much, not enough.

Peter slows things down even further, kissing his way back to Stiles’ lips. His grip loosens as he takes one of Stiles’ hands, where his fingers curl, weak, between Peter’s. Stiles gently touches the sandy line of Peter’s jaw, his thick lashes fluttering heavy as he calms and gazes back at him. Peter’s wearing a similarly soft and dazed expression.

Stiles senses the mood shifting slowly, both of them drawing back to where they are, the reality of the incredible situation they’ve found themselves in. They both linger there, wanting to hold onto the moment.

After the longest time, Stiles blinks, fluttering his lashes as he nuzzles against Peter, who eventually draws back, looking similarly intoxicated.

It takes Stiles a while to become coherent again.

“As much as I want to say ‘please take me on the desk now, Daddy’… I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” Stiles admits breathlessly, trying to refocus.

“Unfortunately I think you’re right.” Peter murmurs, brushing his nose alongside Stiles’.

He feels a rush of relief, closing his eyes as Peter presses up against him more gently this time. The want there is incredibly powerful. Stiles can sense how Peter’s equally reluctant to draw away from him too. He cups Peter’s cheek in his hand and draws him back in for a few final, soothing kisses that linger. Stiles thinks he’ll still be feeling them until the next time he kisses Peter. Everything feels so sensitive and raw.

When they part again, it’s with soft, glossy lips and secretive smiles. Stiles feels giddy, on the verge of giggles.

“You wanna do this again next week?” Stiles offers as Peter picks up his shirt, tugging it back on. He lingers on the deep plummet of the neckline, recalling how firm Peter’s pecs had felt, how smooth and warm.

“Hm. How about dinner first?” Peter suggests, that knowing, smug look creeping across his face that Stiles finds dangerously attractive.

“You can have dinner and a show if you take me somewhere with chopsticks.”

The sound of Peter laughing as he wraps an around arm his waist and yanks him in close makes Stiles’ heart soar.

“I would love that, sweetheart.” Peter agrees, giving Stiles a firm kiss that feels… familiar somehow. He can imagine that sort of kiss before he says goodbye, first thing in a morning over coffee, or just because. Stiles snatches himself out of the daydream before it goes too far.

“And then more making out?” Stiles asks hopefully, making Peter smile, all perfect, pearly teeth.

“That sounds incredible.” Peter kisses his flushed cheek and relinquishes his hold on Stiles, turning back to the desk. Stiles runs his eyes over the curve of his backside as he leans forward, picking up a pencil and scribbling down something inside the back cover of Stiles’ sketchbook hurriedly.

“What are you…?”

“My number.” Peter explains, folding the sketchbook together and turning back to Stiles with a warmth in his eyes that spreads through his whole being. “Text me anytime. I’d love to hear more about you. We can plan our date and next make out session better.”

“Right. Sounds awesome.” Stiles says slightly breathlessly. He didn’t really expect more than making out, but he’s thrilled.

“You’re adorable.” Peter says gruff and pleased, looking like he wants to eat Stiles whole.

“You’re pretty cute yourself.” Stiles shoots back, ducking his head as he takes back his sketchbook. There’s no sense in feigning his interest, so he flips open the back cover to check Peter’s full name in elegant cursive above his number: _Peter Hale_.

Stiles already has plans to do a brief online background check of Peter out before he goes anywhere alone with him. As good as he feels about this, he’s had enough lectures from his dad, has heard enough horror stories to know it’s worth being cautious before he gets too excited. That and he has Lydia’s offer fresh in his mind.

“I would invite you to go make out in my car, but I think we should take things slow. I think the college might frown upon us both if someone were to find out. Even if I’m not technically staff they are employing me for this.” Peter says with a hard sigh.

“Yeah, but that’s kinda hot too.” Stiles shrugs and he loves the look on Peter’s face that says he’s in complete agreement. “But if we are making out in your car or going off campus, I have to tell my friend Lydia where we’re going in case you’re a murderer.”

“Please,” Peter scoffs. “I drive a Shelby 1000 Cobra. Actually I drive _two_. There are only 100 in the entire world.” Stiles gets a sense that the guy likes to peacock a little, but he’s not impressed, raising an eyebrow until Peter gets to the point. “I don’t plan on getting any blood on the upholstery. It would cost a fortune to have her cleaned.”

“‘Her’?” Stiles asks with a wide smile that dimples his cheeks. Peter looks embarrassed and as much as Stiles finds that endearing, he gives Peter a break, admitting happily: “My Jeep’s named Roscoe.”

Peter blinks, taken aback.

“Naja,” Peter admits after a moment, looking sheepish even as he beams. “Tommy’s in the garage at the moment.”

“You’re such a dork.” Stiles snorts. Peter gives him a playful nudge in retaliation.

“Says you.”

“Takes one to know one.”

It’s incredibly juvenile, but Stiles is riding high from their make out session, all the compliments. He feels completely comfortable to be his usual self around Peter already and the guy seems attracted to that. That the older man has a secretly shares his dorky sense of humor is possibly the most attractive thing about him.

“Are you comfortable if I continue with the modelling until the end of the semester?” Peter asks suddenly. “If at any point you need me to stop, I can. It’s only a hobby to me.”

“Right, Mr Shelby 1000 Cobra.”

“Mr _Two_ Shelby 1000 Cobras.”

“How rich are you?” Stiles splutters, thinking of the rolls of duct tape stashed in Roscoe for emergency repairs. He shakes the thought from his head. “But no. No quitting. We can date if you want and make out, but maybe we should do that off campus to be on the safe side. And… I think we should take things slow, like you suggested.” Stiles finds himself grumbling the last words.

“And so you can have me naked and spread several more times for your viewing pleasure.”

“Exactly. In the name of art.”

Peter smirks and catches Stiles’ hand, draws it to his lips as he bows forward, pressing a light kiss to the back of his knuckles. Stiles is left speechless, lips parted in surprise. Nobody’s ever kissed his hand like that before. It feels so intimate, even after their steamy make out session.

“I’ll do my absolute best to be an amusing muse for you, Stiles.” Peter says brightly as he stands tall again, releasing Stiles’ hand.

He smacks Peter’s arm lightly with his little sketchbook, chuckling to himself as he gathers up his bag to leave.

“I would take you back to my place,” he starts teasingly as he heads for the door, turning to pace backwards. “But would that count as art theft? You know… because you’re a masterpiece.”

Peter groans but his affectionate look for Stiles says it all, his eyes are sparkling. Peter really is a huge dork, just like him.

“See you soon, Stiles.”

“Bye, Peter.”

With that Stiles slips out, flipping his sketchbook open and immediately putting Peter’s number in his contact list. He texts him on his way out of the building.

_You know for a figure drawing model you’re kinda sketchy. :p -SS_

_I forgot to mention how much I love your body of work.  
Your art’s fine, baby. -PH_

_Omg.  
I’m afraid I need to call the Art Loss Register. -SS_

_Why’s that? -PH_

_Because you just stole my heart. -SS_

_I hope this isn’t too forward of me...  
But can we bring our date forward to this weekend? -PH_

_YES. PLEASE. -SS_

_Wonderful._  
Let me know when you get back to your dorm safely.  
Have a good night, Stiles. -PH 

_Will do. :)  
Good night and sweet dreams, Peter! -SS_

Clutching the phone to his chest, Stiles walks across campus with even more of a spring in his step than usual. Of all the college experiences he’s had outside classes, this feels like something significant. He doesn’t dare linger on the potential for anything more than amazing make out sessions and Peter’s fantastic company, but he has a _feeling_.

He’s usually right about these things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter is fanart for the fic!
> 
> Please no critique on this work as it was a gift. :)  
> Comments and kudos are wonderful and very appreciated though!
> 
> Thanks red_crate for such an incredible prompt! I hope you enjoyed your gift! It was such a throwback to my college lifedrawing classes and I couldn't resist giving Stiles an interest in Da Vinci's scientific approach to anatomy (as I have Leonardo on the brain at work). I also tried to give bring in a few of your other ships, even if only in passing. This was a brilliant prompt to play with and I hope I did your idea justice.
> 
> Thank you for being my muse, Valentine! ♡


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are love!  
> Please no critique though, as this work is a gift.
> 
> Plaid texture comes from Stiles' Mossimo flannel worn in 2x01. I figured he'd wear something old and comfortable he can get messy in. ;)  
> I tried to replicate how I thought Stiles would draw Peter, but decided it's best left to the imagination, and so I attempted something a bit different with this piece to make it look sketchier and on theme.
> 
> There's also a moodboard which will be posted to Pillowfort and Fumblr as well. Links forthcoming!
> 
> Thank you, Mads for the best prompt I could hope for! I had so much fun making these. Happy Steter Valentine's Day, dear!


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